Frostbite
by Everlasting Faerie Light
Summary: He was everything that she despised: cold, rutheless, twisted, brutal. But even as she held the gun to his head, she just couldn't pull the trigger. RussiaXfem!America, Set during the Cold War
1. Prologue

**A/N: Alright, so obviously this is my depiction of the cold war. Naturally, it's a RusAme fic. But I'm using femAmerica and male Russia. (Just to clarify again. I already said so in the summary) However, you can consider this fic slightly AU due to the fact that both the male and female counterparts coexist in the same world. In other words, Alfred F. Jones is present in this story alongside his twin sister, Emily F. Jones (nyotalia America). Together, they represent America. The same goes for all the other nations. Both take part in the cold war against Russia and his female counterpart, but the main characters are Ivan Braginski and Emily F. Jones. Alright. Clear clear? As much as I love yaoi, I just picture the story this way. Okay! Let's start!**

Prologue:

June 16th, 2012

Alfred took another huge bite of his burger. The scalding hot greasy goodness that attacked his mouth resulted in a large moan to escape his mouth. He closed his eyes in ecstasy as he reveled in the amazing taste of his American "epic-as-hell" hero food.

"Dude! Did you just have a freaking foodgasm?" exclaimed Emily with an amused expression on her face, staring at her twin brother with a mixture of admiration and disturbance.

Alfred swallowed and announced, "Yes. Heroes have foodgasms when they eat amazing food."

Emily scoffed, flipping her medium length golden brown hair. She responded, "Nuh-uh. Heroes have foodgasms when they eat hot dogs!"

To emphasize her point, she took a huge bite out of the hot dog in her right hand. The mustard and ketchup oozed onto her fingers. Once she was done swallowing, she licked her fingers clean.

"Psshhh. Hot dogs? Burgers can beat the shit out of hot dogs any day," reprimanded Alfred as he finished off his burger, slightly saddened that he had managed to devour the whole thing in less than two minutes. He looked around the Italian street to see if there were any fast food joints nearby. He frowned as he realized that there were none that he could spot.

"Plus," he added, looking down at his considerably shorter sister. "Hot dogs are shaped like dicks."

Emily smirked. "Oh please, brah. We all know you like it up the ass. Arthur does you the favor all the time…"

"God, shut up! That was like…one time! And we were both fucked as shit!" he fumed, his face heating up at the mention of Arthur. Okay…maybe it wasn't just one time. Maybe it was twice. Or four times. Or ten…but who the hell is counting? Plus, he didn't even know what to make of his "relationship" with the island nation. It was definitely in the awkward stage.

"One time my ass. You totally dig him," Emily said as she took another bite of her hot dog.

"Whatever," Alfred pouted, desperately wishing that there was a burger joint somewhere. "And it WAS one time! All the other times, I'm the one who did HIM the favor."

Emily threw her head back and laughed. "Yeah. I heard he's small anyways. I don't know how any brother of mine can have such low standards. Come on, Alfred! Even our dear invisible brother Matthew did better! He's fucking Gilbert, dude! I know from personal experience that the albino is huge."

Alfred's eyes grew wide from behind his glasses. "P-Personal experience?"

Emily rolled her eyes and held a hand up. "Last year's Christmas Eve, Kiku's house, completely baked. End of story."

Alfred was still stunned at the revelation. He cringed as he imagined any one of the nations groping his sister. That's just…oh God, no! Bad mental image! Oh shit! What if she and Francis fooled around? EIW! EIW! That would result in some freaking kinky crap!

"Who else have you fooled around with?" Alfred asked, feeling slightly scarred. He didn't even know why he was asking. It's not like he actually wanted to know what went down between his sister and any of the other nations.

Emily raised an eyebrow at her brother and responded, "Well…there was that one night two years ago with Feliciano and Ludwig. Those two can be as horny as hell, let me tell you. Then that other time when we were in Athens, I got completely smashed with Heracles and we-"

"Okay, you can stop now."

"…oh and then that one time with Lovino and Antonio. I'm telling you...when you're part of a threesome with two guys that are totally into each other, it's pretty awesome. And also, last year, Natalia and I-"

"Um… Seriously. Stop. I don't want to hear my sister's sexual adventures," Alfred said, feeling as if someone had permanently scarred his brain with mental images of his sister screwing every single nation there was.

"Hey, you asked," she said nonchalantly as she finished off her hot dog.

Alfred groaned. "When did my sister become a whore? That's Francis's job!"

"Oh! I almost forgot! When we took that trip to Paris a few years back, Francis and I totally f-"

Alfred covered his sister's mouth. He was already scarred enough…but add Francis Bonnefoy to the mix, along with his sister….that's just a big fat no.

After a few more moments of bickering, the two stopped in front of a tall intricate building that seemed to tower up to the blue Italian sky. Alfred allowed himself to actually admire the majesty of it. Feliciano may be a pussy, but he sure knew how to decorate his shit.

"I think this is it," Emily said as she walked forward toward the ancient looking wooden door. She rapped on it three times before placing her hand on her hip and cocking it to the side.

"Dammit, I wish I had a hot dog," she stated rather frustratingly.

A few seconds later, the door creaked open and the head of Feliciano popped out. He was grinning his squinty-eyed smile, his cheeks glowing and his copper curl as curly as ever. Alfred always wondered what would happen if he just cut it off one day…

"Ve! Bonjourno Emily…Alfred. You got here just in time for the pasta! I even made a pizza!" he announced enthusiastically.

"Wassup, Feli," Emily greeted, reaching up on her tip toes to ruffle the top of the Italian's hair. Feliciano looked slightly taken aback at the gesture, but quickly recovered with a smile as he beckoned them in.

The immediate sound of Italian style guitar music mixed with mumbled conversations swam down the narrow stone hall with towering ceilings and soaring beams. Alfred and Emily both followed Feliciano, their footsteps echoing against the stone floor. The two Americans were gaping unashamedly at the castle-like intricacies that enveloped the three of them.

_Dude! I need to make a place like this! It would be totally sick! _

As they approached the end of the hall, the voices got more and more distinct.

"Just go avay, Gilbert!"

"Kesesese. You can't tell me to go away, West. I'm too awesome for that."

"Why do you make it a priority to be so obnoxious?"

"Was I talking to you eyebrows? I don't think so. Don't taint my awesomeness, please."

"Just shut up you fucking bastards! I'm trying to enjoy my damn pasta here!"

"Oh! And don't forget the tomatoes!"

"I wasn't talking to you, tomato bastard."

"You're so cute when you blush."

"ARGHHH!"

Feliciano's facial expression became more and more flustered as the voices grew louder. Finally, he led them to a large room with large glass windows and a domed ceiling, which featured a rather renaissance styled painting.

And gathered in this room were all of the nations, engaged in some sort of activity. Alfred realized that even some of his own states had made it. That just shows that tonight was gonna be banging. Maybe he'd be able to get it in with Arthur again…

Speaking of Arthur…

The English man looked extremely flustered and red faced as he took another drink of his scotch. He was surrounded by a very tipsy Gilbert, a very aggravated Ludwig, and a pissed off looking Lovino (who was trying desperately to eat his pasta, but failing to do so because Antonio hovered over him, making sexual remarks involving tomatoes.)

"I'm going to check on the pizza! Help yourself to some pasta!" Feliciano piped up enthusiastically before scampering off toward a wooden door at the other end of the room.

"Yo, I'm in desperate need of some booze," Emily remarked as she walked further into the room. Her brother followed after her, keeping his eyes trained on Arthur, who seemed to become redder…and sexier by the second. Alfred felt his lips curl up slightly in a smirk. Maybe a drink wouldn't be so bad either…

Emily rolled her eyes. "Stop making googly eyes at him. Just drink some shit and get it in. Stop being a pussy and hurry along."

Alfred glared at his sister and said, "Heroes aren't pussies!"

"Since when were you a hero?"

"Low hit, sis."

Emily ignored this and turned back around, searching the room for any booze. There had to be some somewhere…if only this room wasn't so damn big. Seriously! Fucking Europeans and their huge ass castles. Their houses and hotels just happen to be pint sized, but they blow their castles out of proportion. It doesn't make sense!

What she really wanted right now was a hot dog with a Miller's Light to wash it down. She also wanted to either be lying on her ass in front of the television right now, or getting it in. From the current situation she was in, she was obviously going to opt for the second option.

Plus, she was pretty sure that there would be no Miller's Light anywhere here.

Emily saw Daisy Vargas, already pretty tipsy, as she performed a rather epic motorboat on Louise Beilschmeidt's breasts. Seriously, what is up with the Germany and North Italy siblings? They like…all have a thing for each other. Plus, if Emily were to motorboat someone's boobs, it would be Yekaterina's. Seriously, those things are freaking huge!

She passed by a few chattering US states and rolled her eyes. Jesus! They were so annoying! Especially that bitch, Ashley Richardson-Jones.(California) She was always flashing her ass and flipping her oh-so-blonde hair so that she could get some. Then there was that hippie bitch Mckenzie Creek-Jones. (Oregon). She may smell like weed and say the weirdest things ever, but for some reason, both her brother and Arthur fawned over her for the longest time.

Finally, FINALLY…Emily saw the liquor. Holy shit…there was a lot. All the nations probably brought their unique shit from their home.

The American girl started to make her way to the table, but then she tripped over something on the ground. She gave a yelp of surprise as she stumbled forward. She cursed and looked down to see a sleeping Heracles Karpusi, his limbs stretched at odd angles, and his head turned to the side, where his shaggy brown hair spilled all over his face.

Damn Greeks and their random siestas.

Right now…she had her eyes on that vodka…

She managed to close her hand around the vodka bottle, but faltered when she realized that the inscription on the label was Russian.

Emily started to debate with herself. She really really wanted the vodka…but she vowed herself to never EVER drink or eat anything that has any sort of Russian acrylic shit on it. That's just how much she hated him. Alfred may have embraced the "forgive and forget" thing, but Emily sure as hell didn't. After all, SHE was the one who took her brother's place as sole personification of the United States as a nation during the Cold War. Her brother wasn't calling the shots.

The ONE time that she acts as the dominant "America" just HAD to be when that fucking commie was involved.

She would've rather led The United States during both the World Wars. Of course her brother would hand over the reins to his cute twin sister so that he wouldn't have to directly deal with the sociopathic nation.

And she had no clue how painful it would all be in the end. Despite the fact that no shots were fired or real damage was done…the real pain came from the endless waiting and tension and emotion…and…fuck! Both she and her brother don't DEAL with that crap well! She remembered how torn up her brother was after the American Revolution, despite his victory. He kept crying about Arthur for freaking ever. Then there was that disastrous civil war. That was the ONE time she ever fought against her brother…and she lost. That was some of the greatest pain that she had ever experienced and it took her forever to actually acknowledge her brother with any sort of decency…especially after all of the harsh measures he imposed on her just for requirement to rejoin the damn union.

Pshhh….screw it.

She took a swig of the vodka and cringed at the burning sensation.

"Vodka is good, da?"

Emily choked.

Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit!

He was RIGHT THERE! She could literally feel his presence about a foot away from her. He was literally shitting bitter ice at her direction.

Her body stiffened as her heart started to beat and the chills erupted down her spine. Her skin started to pucker into goosebumps and her stomach was turning unpleasantly.

Maybe she shouldn't have eaten that damn hot dog.

Yes.

She will admit it.

Even though she won back in 1989, Ivan Braginski still terrified the living SHIT out of her.

He always had.

She didn't know what it was that was so unnerving about the Russian. Maybe it was his dark innocence. Maybe it was his hidden, yet intense plethora of emotions. Maybe it was his smile.

Emily slowly turned her head to look at him. She mentally cowered under his dominant presence. She had forgotten how tall he is. He wore his usual thick coat and scarf. His shockingly light colored hair was ruffled and fell into big eerie amethyst eyes, which contrasted vibrantly with his snow white skin.

He wasn't looking at her. He was looking forward at nothing in particular, his eyes glowing and his lips curled into a gentle smile.

That smile turned her dreams into nightmares for many years during and after the Cold War.

Emily twitched.

She bit her lip and attempted to lock her limbs to prevent herself from trembling.

Dammit! She felt like one of the Baltics!

She felt sorry for them. Even though, thanks partly to her, they had gained their independence, those three still lived under the great shadow of Russia.

Emily took another swig of the vodka, but instantly regretted it. It made her feel absolutely nauseous. It didn't help that the damn commie was just STANDING there.

And she couldn't find the power to remove herself from the scene. It was like her whole body was set in deadlock mode.

She only ever felt this way around the Russian bastard. And it's been a long time since she had last seen him. In fact, the last time she saw him in person was when the Berlin Wall fell. That was when she gave up. That was when she couldn't take anymore. She didn't care if she won. She didn't care if she managed to cause the Soviet Union to collapse. She didn't care that she had bragging rights.

She was just done. She couldn't stand to see the fucker's face anymore…not after so many years of high tension. So she handed the reins back to her brother and stayed deep in the recesses of her home for a while.

That's when she realized why Ivan Braginski unnerved her.

He had seen her at her most vulnerable.

He was the ONLY one who saw her at her most vulnerable. Not even Alfred, Matthew, or Meg had ever seen her breaking point.

As far as she's aware, only the commie bastard has seen it. Because that was the only time she had ever fallen apart.

And as ice cold as he was, she did see the many conflicting emotions behind that eerie smile and those glowing purple eyes. And it scared her because he never let anyone in.

Except for one time.

He had let her in.

It was an unspoken secret of theirs.

"Long time, no see," spat Emily through gritted teeth. Her voice was shaking and her fingers were tightening violently around the vodka bottle. Her palms were becoming sweaty.

He stood there, as calm as ever. Finally, he turned his head to look down at her. His creepy smile was still in place and his violet eyes were flickering. A strange shadow seemed to cast over his face and Emily flinched.

She found it hard to breathe as she looked into the face that haunted her and brought back so many unwanted and personal memories. It has been twenty two years since she last saw him.

She did not understand how the other nations can talk to and face him on a daily basis. She didn't understand how her own counterpart BROTHER could deal with him after all that shit.

The Russian gave a tiny little chuckle and answered, "Indeed."

Emily just stood there, enclosed in the awkward silence. No…no no. This wasn't awkward silence at all. She could feel the dangerous tension that resonated in the air. It wasn't innocent awkwardness at all.

This was the air of murder.

She needed to move. But she wasn't in control of her muscles. Why can't the stupid commie just leave? Why can't he go chat up China or his sister? They can all live in their blissful commie world.

"Stupid commie," Emily muttered under her breath, trying to prevent herself from shaking.

"What was that?" The Russian asked innocently, his eyes trained on her. She could hear the dark undertone that laced his otherwise friendly voice. Emily cursed herself inwardly, keeping her eyes forward.

"N-Nothing. Just…um…not feeling to good," she responded.

"If you don't feel good, you shouldn't be drinking vodka, da?" Russia remarked. Emily broke. She turned her face to look straight at him, narrowing her eyes at the sight of his glowing eyes. She shivered, but didn't break her resolve.

"Maybe I _want _to drink the damn vodka," she spat.

Russia just kept smiling, but the air seemed to grow extremely bitter. Emily started to hyperventilate as she looked up at the towering figure of the commie. She felt extremely exposed and helpless. Everything came flooding back to her in a torrential storm. She kept her eyes trained on Russia's amethyst colored ones, which seemed to flash dangerously.

She remembered the meetings, screaming at him over the Berlin Blockade, crying at his feet in 1961 during the Berlin Crisis, tearing poor Im Young Soo and his brother apart in the Korean war…his pity, his anger, his continuous bipolar attitude, the collapse of his mental state…

Russia suddenly reached out and started to pat Emily on the head gently with a pseudo-good natured expression on his face. She let herself tremble. Her heart was jumping out of her chest and her breathing was uneven. The air around her was extremely cold and a surprising instinct to reach up and kiss his icy lips overwhelmed her.

This wouldn't be the first time.

_"Vse v poryadke," _he said softly. "You do what you want. Don't let me stop you."

Suddenly, his fingers dropped from the top of her head to her neck. Emily squeaked as his cold, yet electrifying fingers, wrapped around the flesh of her neck. He squeezed lightly and Emily gritted her teeth. Her shoulders tensed as she trained her eyes on the continuously flashing eyes of the Russian.

Was he going to choke her in front of everyone here?

The air was icy and the goosebumps were uncontrollable. Her heart was going to explode from the amount of beating it was engaging in.

"Just like old times, da?" Russia said with his eerie smile. Yet, his tone was bittersweet. It was laced with poison.

Emily didn't say a word. The Russian gave a tiny chuckle before releasing her neck slowly. His lips curled up into a smirk as he said in a deadly voice, "I'll never forget."

With that, he turned around and left her at the table, still clutching the bottle of vodka with trembling hands.

She cursed violently under her breath, her limbs feeling like they would snap from pure panic.

Emily never let anyone have the last word when they walk away from me. It's just not right.

There is always the exception though.

**A/N: So, what do you think? :D. This is the prologue and the only scene that will take place in modern day. The rest of the story is set during the Cold War era and it will describe all the shit that went down between the sexy, yet deadly and icy Russia and our feisty nyotalia America.**


	2. Transfer of Sole Power

February, 1945

Emily F. Jones, America

Alfred collapsed on the sofa, his face extremely pale. I eyed him warily and sighed. That damn World War really wore him out. I hated seeing my brother like this. It skewed my vision of him. Alfred was the hero, the confident man splashed with a touch of familiar arrogance. He wasn't serious. He wasn't tired. He was undefeatable.

There are instances where I've seen him broken, of course. But those were moments I tended to try and forget. Sadly, everyone else is there to remind us of it all.

Alfred closed his eyes, which were only partly visible due to the stream of light that reflected off of his glasses. I slowly approached him and propped myself at the edge of the couch. He didn't move a muscle.

There were bags present under his eyes and his usual vibrant persona was watered down to a faint and broken hum. The effects of war could be a real bitch.

I would know.

My brother and I both personify America. But he gets all of the glory for it. But I'm not jealous.

Because getting the glory means dealing with all of the awful shit that can really break anyone, human or nation. He's the one who attends the meetings, cooperates with foreign countries, goes to _war _with foreign countries, and finds himself in the middle of never ending conflict.

I stay within the homeland and act as a representation for the various cultures, promoting the ideals of American nationalism.

However, that doesn't mean that my brother and I don't intertwine.

I fought alongside my brother in the Revolutionary War against Arthur and his sister Alice. I cried just as much as he did when he lost his only fatherly figure, yet I also rejoiced with him when we got our independence. I fought in the War of 1812, though I wasn't very mature militarily compared to Alfred, for I had led the failed invasions into Canada. At least Matthew forgave me for that.

And there was that time where I actually turned against my brother. Something I will never do again.

I don't know why I decided to be so rash to secede from the union and create the confederacy in the nineteenth century. That whole damn century was just a bitter feud between me and Alfred. That was the ONE time where I truly took control of what I had and fought. And God, did I fight.

And it was the most painful thing in the world.

Mentally and physically.

I never knew that I could be wounded so much. I never knew that I could cause so much bloodshed.

I've experienced war. I always experience war.

But that was the only time where I was the one who catalyzed it and fully engaged myself in it.

And I never want to do it again.

Alfred's eyes fluttered open and they fell on me. He gave me a weak smile and I gave him one in return. The smile told me that this part of the chapter was over. Germany was as good as defeated. It's only a matter of time before they surrender.

Yet, I knew that it was far from over.

There will be reconstruction to undergo. Treaties to make. Conditions to set.

I remembered the reconstruction period after my brother defeated me back in the nineteenth century. It was a bitch.

"Hey sis," he greeted.

I gave a small laugh before sighing. "You look like shit, Al."

"I never look like shit. Heroes always look epic," he snapped feebly.

I just shook my head. "Don't even try, dude. You look like shit."

Alfred just breathed in and his eye fluttered shut again. His cheeks puffed as he breathed out dramatically and said, "It's almost over."

His voice was faint. I reached out a hand and removed a few strands of his hair from his face. I sniggered slightly at his oh-so-innocent face, but it died quickly. Alfred responded by repeating his words.

"_It's almost over."_

His use of emphasis frightened me a bit. It made me realize how ignorant I was about all that was going on.

I didn't know what was going on out there. I only know what's going on here.

The war isn't here. It's not fought on American soil.

Here I am, skipping around the nation promoting patriotism and funding the allied forces, waiting for the latest report on the war from the radio or from my brother. I'm safe here. Always worried and anxious, yes. But safe.

And here is my brother, coming home from time to time with a new wound, a new scar, tears of frustration, and exhaustion. Now, it's almost over.

It's only a matter of time before Ludwig will fall on his ass. Feliciano is already a hopeless wreck. Kiku is still revolting, but he will pay for what he did at Pearl Harbor.

"Is it really bad out there?" I asked softly, cringing at the sound of my fear-stricken voice.

The shadows under Alfred's eyes seemed to deepen as he opened them to stare up at me through his glasses. His mouth was set in a permanent frown and he looked so much older than he really was. He looked as though he had must come back from single-handedly taking on a country as large as Russia.

"Emmy," he began, using my pet name. I was shocked at his use of it. He had stopped calling me Emmy after I seceded from the union and became the confederacy. Even when I came back, he never called me Emmy.

"You mean so much to me, you know that?" he said with a soft smile. I was taken aback by his behavior. I have never seen Alfred act like this before…so soft, delicate, and affectionate. No, my twin brother is boisterous and loud and annoying as fucking hell.

Nevertheless, I gave a small smile back and responded, "I know. You mean a lot to me to, bro."

He was silent for a moment. Then, without warning, he sat up, his formerly calm face morphed with distress.

He let out a pained groan as he buried his face in his hands, his hair flopping lamely over his forehead.

"I can't do this," he moaned, his voice muffled.

I just stared at him, unsure of what to say.

"It's not supposed to be like this," he continued to vent. "I'm not supposed to back down. I'm supposed to be the hero and save the world. But I'm just so _tired." _

I hesitantly reached out a hand and placed it on his shoulder. He stiffened under my touch.

"I-I don't even know, Emmy. Maybe I bit off more than I can chew. I was just so _pissed _when Kiku bombed Pearl Harbor. It was all just happening so fast! Before I knew it, Ludwig declared war against me. I had no choice, did I? It was all just _so fucking fast._"

I didn't know what to say. It was one of _those _moments. Those rare moments where he doubted himself and beat himself up. And every single time, I failed at comforting him. I'm just not good with this shit.

I've got to try, don't I?

"But you're winning, aren't you? It's getting better," I clarified gently, cautiously rubbing his back.

He shook his head. "It doesn't matter. I just feel like I'm breaking. Everyone else seems to know what they're doing…even fucking Francis. They've all been around for a long time so they're used to this shit. They used to all fight each other all the time. I-I'm new to this. I don't deal well with foreign affairs. Especially a fucking world war."

His tone was laced with bitterness.

What the hell was I supposed to do?

"Maybe I'm not a hero," he said in a dead voice.

That's what snapped me. I glared at my brother and smacked him on the head. He grunted slightly and he looked at me with an incredulous look on his face.

"What the hell, Emily?" he snapped.

"Don't say that," I growled.

"What?"

"Stop acting like a fucking sissy. You _are _a hero, Al. Just because you feel like you're going to fall on your ass doesn't mean you're not worthy. We may be younger than the others and we may not be as experienced in this sort of shit, but the fact that _you _stepped up just proves that you are a hero," I ranted. I hated it when my brother beat himself up. I _abhor _it when the two of us are seen as inferior. Just because we're fucking younger than everyone else doesn't mean we can't be taken seriously.

Alfred stared at me for a few more seconds before his shoulders sunk and he gave a large sigh. He closed his eyes again and rested his forehead against his palm.

"I need to rest."

"Then rest."

"No. You don't get it. I _need _to just…stay here. Stay in my country and just catch up with what's going on here. Keep a low profile and…rejuvenate," he said in a breathy voice.

My eyes widened, but I didn't protest. Instead I said, "Well, hero or not, we all need to rest. The war's almost over, Alfred. Once Germany surrenders, you can just come home and relax."

"I can't just do that, Emmy. I-I'm America. I can't just bail like that." His voice was so defeated and raw that it tore my heart in two. I could see that right now, Alfred was more human than sovereign nation. I could see that he was about to snap in two and that what he really _needed _was rejuvenation. He needed…dare I say it? A vacation.

So I made up my mind.

Boy, am I batshit crazy for suggesting this.

I don't even think I have enough military experience for this. Sure, I was pretty badass during the civil war, but did I win? No.

"Bro, stop flattering yourself. _You're _America? Than who am I? I'm America as well and there is no rule against your counterpart taking over for a while," I stated.

Alfred looked up at me with a dumbfounded expression on his face.

"What the hell are you saying?"

I huffed a bit and responded, "We'll switch places. I'll act as the sole personification of our country and I'll carry out the rest of the war. You stay here and just relax for as long as you need. You deserve it. Plus, I think it's time that I learned how to do this sort of shit."

Alfred just continued to stare at me, a steely expression on his face. His shoulders were tensed and he looked like he was holding his breath. The air seemed to grow thick with tension and his glasses reflected the faint stream of sunlight dangerously.

Finally, he let out a breath and shook his head slowly. "I don't feel comfortable with that, Emmy. I don't like the idea of you dealing directly with the war and all the nations. Even the allies are a bit sketchy…especially that Ivan…"

I glared at my brother with all of the antipathy that I could muster. I spat at him through gritted teeth, "I am your damn counterpart. I am just as worthy as you are to run the country, even if I have to do it in a way that I'm not used to. I know enough to strategize and finish up the war. I can deal with reconstruction because I've been directly involved in that shit before. You remember how I almost beat your ass during the civil war, dude. The only reason you won was because you got lucky and managed to snag people like Grant and Sherman."

Alfred's face fell and he looked down at his hands. He hated talking about the Civil War even more than I did, which is ironic since he won. I think it's the prospect that I actually turned against him. I don't think he's ever fully healed from it.

I also don't think he can ever trust me fully again.

I sighed and ran my hand through my hair. "Alfred, just break it off. Just let me take things from here. I think it would be good for you to just stay in the country for a while. Please."

I pulled my best doe-eyed expression. Eventually, his resolve shrank and he nodded mutely.

"Fine. From this day on, you, Emily F. Jones, will be the sole personification of the United States…that is…until I'm ready to come back."

I smiled at him.

"There is so much I can advise you to do, but knowing you, you would just blow it off. But please take this advice, sis," he inquired.

Then his face became dark as he said, "Do not trust anyone. Not even the allies. _Not even Arthur. _Know that everyone is really there for self-gain. That's all it is. You're going to have to be a bit selfish, Emmy. Do what you think will benefit _you. _No half-assed compromises."

I bit my bottom lip and gave a quick nod.

Holy hell, I did not know what I had just gotten myself into.


	3. Yalta Part One

Yalta Conference Part I, February 1945

Emily F. Jones

I rubbed my eyes and sighed as I stared at myself in the mirror.

It was unnatural to see myself like this. My curly golden-brown hair was pulled back into a ponytail, with a few locks framing my face; and, I was dressed in a white collared shirt, a tie, and a pair of lose dark trousers. I winced.

I looked like a very small, feminine man.

Alfred told me that it was best if I dressed as unfeminine as possible; they would take me more seriously. I internally scoffed at the idea, but I could see his point. It's going to take a while for everyone to accept that I am going to be the sole personification of America for a while, and that I'll be carrying out the rest of this war…possibly the reconstruction process.

I needed to make an impression, and I don't think anyone would take me seriously if I showed up in the usual skirt or dress. Maybe if it was Elizaveta or Natalia, it would be alright. But not me.

I, Emily F. Jones, was just the twin sister of Alfred F. Jones, and the personification of the pretty, more domestic part of America. Yes, I deal with the economy, the pop culture, the corruption...but outside the country, no one really gives a flying shit sauce about me.

Yet, I couldn't help but realize how…how boring I looked. I grimaced as I straightened my tie. I turned to the side and flinched at how unflattering these pants were.

Emily, stop being such a shallow materialist. You're no longer the cultural iconic part of America. You are the fighter now.

I gazed out the window and saw that the faint light of dawn was illuminating the sky. My heart beat increased and my stomach started to flutter violently. This was it. I was leaving for my first quest as the dominant America.

I was hopping on an airplane with good ol' Franklin D. Roosevelt to Yalta, Ukraine to discuss the post-war plans Arthur and his boss Winston Churchill, as well as Ivan and Joseph Stalin. My throat felt unnaturally dry at the thought of facing these people as equals, of talking with them about the future of Germany, of Europe…

And I had to be as cautious as I could.

No half-assed compromises.

I have to admit that it was really reckless. No one knows about the current arrangements, not even FDR. He was expecting to meet up with Alfred at the airport in the next hour.

He'd probably believe that this was some sort of sick joke.

I tore my eyes away from the mirror and walked back slowly to my already-made bed. I sat on it as carefully as I could, and looked over at the clock that sat on the table. It was almost four AM. I sighed and rubbed my temples. My stomach was churning unpleasantly, and I had to suppress my trembling limbs.

I couldn't do it.

I just…I didn't understand how Alfred could deal with this. Why…WHY did I make the offer to take his place? I could never take his place! I'm not the hero. I'm not the warrior of this country. I'm the cultural icon.

Not anymore.

I started to rub my sweating palms together as I looked toward my large bags, sitting miserably by the doorway.

I was really leaving to do this. I was going to the Ukraine as the America.

Fuck this.

If I'm going to be the dominant America here, than I was going to do it my way.

I opened my closet and grabbed a handful of my every day clothes. My "improper" clothes, as many would call it.

My favorite beige short skirt? Hell yes.

My shirt with the plunging neckline that I had acquired during the twenties? Fuck yeah.

My summer dress that floated to my knees? Why not?

My…my….

That suitcase…

My breath hitched slightly as I opened the old suitcase to look at my dusty, yet neatly folded military uniform. The uniform I'd only worn once in my life. During the Civil War.

The top was small and grey with buttons that lined the edge. It was accompanied by a pair of matching trousers that were now nothing but tiny shorts. They used to be long, thick, and heavy, but during the Battle of Antietam, they were ripped and incinerated beyond repair, so I just…um…fixed them up a bit more by chopping off the ruined parts.

If I wore this, Alfred would throw a bitch fit. First of all, he would tell me that the uniform made me look like a whore. Second of all, he would grow bitter at the thought that I was wearing my old Confederate army uniform.

So, I would just pack this, and once I got to the Ukraine, I'd change into it.

Because if I am going to do this, I am going to do it my way. I don't give a damn what the others think.

So I stowed my extra materials away in one of my bags, struggling to make sure that it locked properly. I gulped and glanced back at the clock.

Time to head out.

I took a deep breath before carrying my bags and heading out of my room, to the hallway. I walked to the living room to see Alfred sitting on the couch, sitting in an upright position as he stared at his knees, a ghostly expression on his face. The radio was on, but I didn't bother to listen to the reports about the war. It would just scare me even more.

He looked up as he saw me approach. I stared at my brother, taking in his deep cerulean eyes.

Something passed between us.

An understanding that this would be the beginning of something sinister. Even though I was just ending the war for him, we both knew that it was a lot more than that. Some serious shit was going to go down.

"A-Alfred…" I stuttered in a quiet voice.

He jumped to his feet in one swift movement, marched toward me, and wrapped his arms around me. I couldn't breathe against his python like embrace, but I appreciated it, and my insides warmed immediately. It also broke down the emotional barrier that I had built. I felt the tears spill down my cheeks as I hugged him back, my face buried in his shoulder.

"You'll be fine, Emmy. I know it. I trust you," he said softly.

I nodded against his shoulder, still trembling.

After I had calmed down a bit, he stood back, keeping his hands on my shoulders as he looked down at me, a sad smile playing on his lips.

"Make me proud, sis."

I was determined. I would be America. I would make my brother proud. I would make my nation proud.

I nodded. "Always."

XX

The flight aboard the C-54 was uneventful. I drifted in and out, losing all track of time. I rejected all food and drink offered to me, and I barely talked. Not even to Roosevelt, who seemed rather frustrated at my lack of desire to talk politics and tactics. I would save that for the conference.

Speaking of Roosevelt, he took this whole thing surprisingly well. He demanded to know why I was dealing with this whole thing rather than Alfred, but after I explained the situation, he just gave me one last hard look, and nodded. The few admirals that had accompanied us barely said a word. So generally, we were all doused in a bath of awkward and foreboding silence.

I knew they were probably all skeptical. Yet, I was thankful that they didn't show it. I wasn't necessarily in the mood to deal with doubt on my ability to run my country. Even if it is in a way I'm not used to.

My eyes stung, and my throat felt extremely dry. I lost all sense of time in the plane; the sky seemed dark one moment, and then extremely light the next. Sometimes, over the clouded horizon, I saw the faint pink light of the sun. But then, it'd seem to fade away.

The unflattering shirt that I was wearing seemed to choke my neck, and the awful black pants seem to be digging into my hip bones. The thought that I was getting closer and closer to Yalta made my stomach twist. Was I politically experienced enough for this?

I can deal with rapid industrialization, nasty-ass strikes, economic corruption, big business, and other societal issues; but, all of the imperialistic/warlike/political shit is Alfred's forte.

"Miss Jones? Miss Jones?"

I felt myself being shaken, but I didn't want to open my eyes. However, I forced myself too, and they hurt. They were probably bloodshot. I really hated airplanes. I didn't understand how Alfred flies in them all the time.

"We've arrived." One of the admirals had woken me. I smiled lightly in response and lifted my head from the back of the airplane seat. I looked out the window, watching as the plane slowly descended. This was it. In a matter of hours, I would greet both Arthur and Ivan as equals.

I shouldn't be too scared, right? They were my allies…right? Then why did I have an awful feeling about this? Why did I feel as if something sinister was swirling beneath all of this?

Alfred's words repeated in my head.

No half-assed compromises.

He warned me to not even trust Arthur.

Was it really that bad?

Well, I guess I'll just have to wait and see, don't I?

XX

I'm here. At the Livadia palace. The room I was to be staying in was very pretty. If it weren't for the current situation, I would be happily exploring this place, and taking in the old eastern European architecture. Truth is, I've never actually been outside the United States before. Well, except for Canada during the War of 1812, but that doesn't really count. It sort of sucked anyway.

I heard that this palace is fairly new and it was built not even a hundred years ago for the tsar, Nicholas II. This was all news to me, to be honest. I'm so historically oblivious when it comes to foreigners. I knew a bit about Arthur and his country because he was so heavily involved with the US. The same goes for Spain.

I breathed in and out, looking out the window. I've been here for a few hours. The time change was messing with my mind. Apparently, it was close to dinner time here.

I wasn't hungry. At all.

I was nervous as hell.

Because in a few hours, I was going to eat dinner with…with…them. Ivan Braginski and Arthur Kirkland, along with their scary-ass bosses.

And they have no clue. They're expecting Alfred to walk through those doors and take his place at the dinner table to make small talks, maybe bring up some politics, or even debate about certain issues.

The meeting won't even officially start until tomorrow, and I'm freaking out about dinner.

I bit my lip and tore my gaze away from the window, turning back toward my bed. It was very nicely made. It definitely had the royal-esque touch to it. I can tell that this was built for some "aristocrats" or whatever the hell they're called.

I scoffed. I always hated those damn aristocrats. They tried time and time again to fuck up the culture of the USA. It makes me shudder to think that Europe's history is filled with nothing but court life and aristocracy. No wonder why Austria is such an ass.

I took another shaking breath, and closed my eyes, counting to ten repeatedly in my head. I started to pace back and forth.

Okay, Emily. Find your inner hero. Your brother can do it. You can do it.

Find your inner hero. You're the hero. You ARE the hero. YOU ARE THE HERO. YOU ARE THE-

There was a knock on the door. I froze. My inner mantra crumbled to dust. I gulped and opened my mouth to speak.

"Come in."

My voice sounded scratchy and hoarse. I cringed at how weak and horrified I really was.

Maybe, maybe I can get a hold of a phone and call Alfred. Yeah. He'll know how to calm me down…

The door opened slowly. An admiral stepped in, pushing good ol' FDR in a wheechair, already in his military suit. However, it was his fancy military suit. The one he wore when having formal meetings with foreign leaders. If this were any other situation, I would've smiled. Good ol' Roosevelt. So adamant on carrying all the shit on his shoulders, and yet, even if he has to be pushed around on a wheelchair to do it. Hell, he's even worse than that Wilson, who pushed himself to the point of a stroke.

"Emily, I just wanted to let you know that dinner will be in about half an hour. Some admirals will arrive shortly, and accompany you down there," he said.

I nodded quickly. "Y-Yes…okay…"

He shot me another strange look before the admiral wheeled him out of the room, closing the door behind him.

Once the door closed, I breathed out, and let my limbs tremble. How was I going to survive this? I'll be squirming all through dinner and everyone will think that I'm a joke, and won't take me seriously…and…and…oh why the FUCK did I do this? I knew that Alfred needed a break, but…but…he knew what to do! I didn't!

No. Stop freaking out Emily.

I breathed in once again, and then out. I let my eyes flutter shut.

I am America.

I am the United fucking States of America.

And I can do this.

I'm just as much of a hero as Alfred is.

I will represent my country.

And I will not make any freaking half-assed compromises.

I opened my eyes again, repeating all of this information in my head. I marched over to the bed, where my bags had been placed. I swung open the biggest one, and took out my old Confederate uniform. I laid it out carefully on the bed, and gazed at it carefully.

Still in good condition. A bit crinkled and faded, but good. Yes…there were faint blood stains here and there, but I think it sort of enhances the look. It shows the true wildness of my country. It shows everyone who I am. What I am willing to do to protect my country.

It felt like heaven to take my hair out of that cursed bun. I shook my head, and reveled in the feel of my golden brown curls swimming against the air. They bounced around my face and brushed my shoulders. I stripped off the clothes I was wearing. No fancy white collared shirt and black tie. No nasty-ass black pants.

I slipped on the uniform.

It fit. Perfectly.

I know that it's a symbolism of the old South. Of racism. Of slavery. Of secession. Of betrayal. Of bloodshed. Of the dead confederacy.

And I regret all that.

But it's also a symbol of my confidence.

I looked at my reflection in the full body mirror that was propped against the wall. My golden-brown curls were a bit messy and ruffled. The gray button of coat hugged my small frame and the shorts were…very short. Ripped. Frayed…exposing my long legs.

Yes, I would probably shock everyone with my indecency. But you know what? I don't fucking care. I'm America, dammit! We live for rebellion. We like making people's jaw drop.

I smiled at my reflection.

There was still the nervousness, the anticipation, the anxiousness, the fear…

But I ignored it. Instead, I kept telling myself that I was the hero now. And I will show everyone what America is made of.

For the next few hours, I paced and fidgeted and told myself that I was okay. That I could do this. And it actually worked. I was no longer trembling. No longer cursing myself for making this decision. In fact, I was smiling. I was looking forward to this.

Every time my brain filled with a single doubt, I'd look at myself in the mirror, and I'd gain my confidence back.

Finally…a knock on the door.

"Come in," I answered. To my relief, I didn't sound scared or horrified. My voice didn't crack, and I wasn't trembling this time.

The door opened and in stepped three admirals, all dressed in fancy military uniforms, stoic expressions on their face. I could see the faint trace of shock as they took in my appearance, but they quickly stifled it. One of them said, "It is time, Miss. America."

Something within me squirmed. I clenched my fists in determination and smiled. It probably looked more like a grimace, but hey. I tried.

"Alright. Let's do this."

XX

"If you don't mind me asking, Miss Jones….what are you wearing?" Franklin Roosevelt asked me in a slightly condescending tone. Yet, he didn't bother to look in my direction. He was at my side, clenching the edges of his wheelchair, staring forward at the doors that would open and let us into the dining hall.

I kept my gaze forward as well, feeling slightly entrapped by the admirals that surrounded us like fucking bodyguards. I swallowed slightly and answered through clenched teeth, "A military uniform."

"…I see."

And with that, he didn't say another word. Thank Jesus for non-nagging bosses.

After a few more minutes of unnecessary waiting, the doors opened. I exchanged a quick look with the boss before stepping forward slowly, making sure that my face was impassive as possible. However, in reality, I was gritting my teeth at the slow movement of the admirals.

But once I had a clear view of the room, I suddenly wished that I was back in my bedroom. I never thought that a dinner could look so damn foreboding. The admirals stepped to each side of us, leaving both Roosevelt and I exposed. My throat went dry.

The room was tall and grand, the walls reflecting the shadows from the large outside windows. They flickered eerily, despite the large chandelier that brightened the atmosphere. The large table in the middle was lined with various assortments of food; it seemed as if the chef attempted to make a large variety of food to satisfy the foreigners. The sight made my stomach clench and I had to bite down a gag.

Sitting at one side of the table was another row of admirals, all upright and stoic. They all sat at either side of both Arthur Kirkland, who had a look of extreme unease on his face. He kept casting glances at his boss, the infamous Winston Churchill, who also looked extremely uneasy, sitting there in his military uniform, his face set in a heavy frown. Emily saw the large row of empty seats on the other side of the table, realizing that the Russians hadn't arrived yet…

Arthur's head turned upon the American's entrance. His green eyes found mine and he seemed to visibly stiffen in shock. I quickly averted my gaze, holding my breath as I walked forward, taking my seat at the table.

I felt FDR's presence beside me, but I didn't look up. I kept my eyes trained on the empty golden plate in front of me. Dammit, I had never felt so stared at in my life. Even the admirals were probably eying me in suspicion. I silently wondered what Arthur was thinking? Was he panicking? Frightened? Shocked? Confused? Angry?

I swallowed and allowed myself to glance upwards. I caught sight of Churchill, who was staring at me with those heavy eyes of his, reflecting obvious tension. Next to him, Arthur's lips were pressed together and his piercing green eyes seemed to stab into me like knives. Shit…that wasn't a happy face at all? I just hoped that I could escape him in after the dinner, avoid a one on one encounter. I didn't want to hear him lecture me or threaten me or whatever the hell he planned to do.

It was painful to say the least. Awkward. No one hardly moved.

Dammit, I bet if Alfred were here, he would be able to break the ice. What am I supposed to say?

It was sort of depressing…to think that here I am, feeling slightly threatened by Arthur Kirkland, a supposed ally, a long time frenemy, a big brother…

I glanced back up at Arthur, only to see that he was staring hard at his plate as well, his eyes angry green slits. Shit…he was definitely going to bitch at me later. Or Alfred. Maybe even good ol' FDR here.

The sound of the door opening broke me out of my thoughts. My head snapped toward the entrance and my stomach turned as I saw them enter.

I already knew that despite the fact we were supposed be allies, Russia was bad news. Alfred had always said that he felt something was off about Ivan Braginski. Ever since his Bolshevik revolution and his adamant endorsement of Marxist thought, America had been slightly wary of the large nation. I had felt the negative psychological effects that Russian idealism had on my nation…as I had to deal with shit like that fucking Red Scare in the twenties. Talk about extreme overreaction and deportation. I will never forget how brutal that Palmer was.

Joseph Stalin made me wince. There was something off-kilter about the man. Though he definitely didn't give off that same icy vibe that Adolf Hitler did, something about Stalin still made my skin crawl. He smiled slightly, that huge mustache making me twitch. Honestly…wouldn't a mustache like that bother you after a while? Shoot me and yell at me for thinking about this during a time like this, but I just can't help it! I remember staring at ol' Lincoln's beard during his inaugural address. Yeah, I'm that shallow.

Then…there was Ivan Braginski. Just looking at him made the room drop about a trillion degrees in temperature. His piercing violet eyes made his innocent smile look twisted and psychotic. His platinum blonde hair looked off white against his white-as-snow skin. He stood there, tall…extremely tall…wearing that same large winter jacket and that same white scarf.

I couldn't take my eyes off of him as his eyes traveled around the room. Finally, they landed on me. I had to do everything in my power to keep myself from fidgeting or squirming or throwing up or fainting. He stared at me for a moment, the small ghost of a smile on his face starting to look more like a grimace. I gritted my teeth and clenched my fists under the table.

I would not look away.

A strange, surging sensation seemed to fill every pore of my being. A competitive, combative one. A sensation that seemed to heighten the tension in the room. I felt the strange need for blood…for bloodshed. I inwardly panicked at the sensation. Where the hell was this coming from? We're allies, right?

However, I couldn't help but feel as if the room was freezing over as Ivan and I continued to stare at each other, his smile still present on his face. Yet, his eyes told a different story. His eyes told me that this was not going to happen the way I intended it.

No. He was telling me that he was going to be in charge of this shit.

That he was the one running this.

That's what got me.

It pissed me off to no end.

And maybe…looking back on it…that's when the long drawn-out battle of ice began.

With that one look, we both knew who the enemy was. We both knew that World War II may be ending, but something else was rising over the horizon.

But first, we would have our dinner like the dignified, civilized superpowers that we are. Meanwhile, the whole world would start to get fucking frostbite.


End file.
